


Turning This Car Around

by Prismabird



Category: The Nice Guys (2016)
Genre: Abuse of Medication, Anxiety Disorder, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Even Holland gets to be the voice of reason sometimes, Fluff, Jackson needs to apologize to everyone, M/M, Road Trips, Sobriety, Vacation, boys getting sappy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-22 23:41:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7458220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prismabird/pseuds/Prismabird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Established relationship. Holland, Jackson, and Holly go on a road trip. Holland needs a sedative, Jackson needs a new dictionary, and Holly can't believe this is her life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired to write this while looking for parenting podcasts for my visiting friend, when I ran across one called "Turning This Car Around" about fatherhood. All apologies for title nabbing, but I loved it too much to change it.

“So how much longer until we get there?”

Holly’s question jarred Jackson out of a hypnotic doze he hadn’t realized he was in, one that had overcome him sometime after he’d driven over the southern tip of the Sierra Nevada Mountains and into flat farmlands, empty save for the occasional scrubby tree that was not quite bold enough to flank the road.

He glanced into the rearview mirror, adjusting it until it reflected his self-proclaimed teenage hostage. She had wedged herself between Holland’s blue Samsonite and her own pillow, propped against the rear driver’s side door. Out the back windshield, the rust tinged mountains shrank and faded, graying in the distance, while long stretches of grassland lay ahead. It was, in short, the kind of landscape with clear air that a person could never breathe in Los Angeles, and the kind of peaceful quiet that could only be broken by the whiney complaints of a teenage girl.

At the moment, the expression on Holly’s face was neutral enough, but she’d crossed her arms in a manor that spoke of a potential shift in patience. Jackson readjusted his mirror. “Kiddo, we’re barely north of Red Rock. It’s gonna be a while. Sit back and enjoy the scenery.”

Aaaannd there went any hope of benevolence. “You know, I had better things to do today than stare at a bunch of stupid rocks and trees. Why did I have to come along anyway?”

“It’s a fam...it’s an everyone trip,” Jackson said, shrugging his shoulders lamely, glad he was no longer reflected at her in the mirror where she could see him blush. Even after going on three years, there was something about referring to their little triad as a family which still made him feel like he was going to be called out for interloping.

Perhaps it was a matter of definition. Jackson appreciated words, respected them for the certainty they gave him. ‘Family’ was a word learned at his parent’s knees, narrowly defined for him before he was even in school. It had certain measures and watermarks that he and Holland and Holly did not (could not) reach. So though Jackson would lay down in front of a train for either of them, the word family still stuck on his tongue, and it gave him a pang every time.

Holly, however, didn’t seem to have that problem. “I’m too old to go on a family trip if I don’t want to. I’ll bet _you_ didn’t have to go on any family trips when you were fifteen.”

“Only because he was in juvie,” Holland spoke up from the passenger seat. He returned Jackson’s irritated expression with a grin, lit cigarette bobbing between his lips. Taking a drag, he blew clouds of smoke into the currants of the air conditioner and watched them tumble in a turbulent stream behind him.

Holly scrunched her face and waved a hand in front of her nose. “Do you have to smoke in the car?”

“Yes, I do. Absolutely.”

“It’s bad for me.”

“No, it’s bad for _me,”_ Holland said, flicking ash into an empty cup. “It’s good for you. Right now, this cigarette is the only thing standing between you and prolicide. I’m smoking to save your life, show some gratitude.”

“Prolicide?” Jackson asked.

“It means ‘the murder of one’s offspring,’ Holly said. “But he’s been telling me that since I was eight, and he hadn’t tried it yet, so I think it’s just a bluff.”

“Trust me, when I’m trapped in the car with you, it’s a real threat.” Holland nudged his and Jackson’s little black toiletries bag with his shoe and said, “I’m telling you, Jack, we should have flown.”

Were they having the fucking airline argument again? Still? Something in Holland’s tone made Jackson think that he was half asking if it were a fight he could still win. “Tahoe’s nine hours drive, max. It’s not worth three airline tickets.”

“Yeah, you’ll want to tack a couple hours onto that,” Holland said. “Holly’s in the car, so all trips take two hours longer.”

“Why’s that?”

“Can we stop somewhere?” Holly asked.

“It starts,” Holland said, leaning back his seat as far as it would go. “Tell me by the time we reach the north bank if it wasn’t worth three airline tickets.”

Jackson ignored him. “What do you want to stop for?” he asked Holly.

“My leg is cramping.”

“There isn’t any place to stop out here.”  

“I need to go to the bathroom.” 

“There isn’t any place to stop!” 

“I don’t feel well!” 

“You’re just making stuff up now. Sit back and button it.”

“Fucking Hitler,” Holly mumbled.

“You know, Delta had some excellent deals this week.”

“Shut up, Holland,” Jackson said.

 

“So when are we going to stop to eat?” 

Somewhere around mile one hundred and fifty, Holly had unbuckled her seat belt and rearranged herself so that her legs were thrown over their little tower of suitcases, her head resting down on the seat. Normally, Jackson wouldn’t care, except that now he didn’t even have a face to argue with - only a pair of rainbow flip flops. He took a deep breath - breathe in, hold, out. Again. “It’s only eleven. We’ll stop for lunch around noon.”

“I get hungry when I’m bored.”

“Play a car game.” 

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, think of something. My brother and sister and I used to see who could spot the most out of state license plates.”

Holly was clearly unimpressed. “I didn’t know cars had license plates back in then 1890s.”

“Very funny.”

“Why would you play such a dumb game anyway?”

“Because if we whined about being bored, my father would stop the car, and wouldn’t start it again until he’d left a dent in each of us.”

There was a pause, and then Holly sat up, alarmed. “Your dad used to hit you?”

Jackson jolted a little at her question. He hadn’t really meant it like that. “No...not in the face. It was a different time, Holly.”

“Dad’s never hit me.”

“We’ll, my father never hit my sister, actually.” He shifted in his seat. This conversation felt exceptionally strange to him, not the least because he was actually defending his father. “It was different for boys.” 

“Dad wouldn’t have hit me if I were a boy. Right, dad?”

“Your mom used to pop you on the butt when you ran in the street,” Holland supplied. He, too, seemed less than comfortable with the direction of their conversation, and lit a cigarette to cover it.

“Yeah, but what do you mean ‘it was a different time’?” Holly asked, because she never let anything go. _“Dad’s_ old, and Grandma told me she never spanked him.”

Holland glanced back over his shoulder. “She’s a liar. I used to get the belt from her.”

“Really?” Holly’s eyes went wide.

“Yup. Even worse, it was her heavyweight title belt. She won it for child beating.”

Holly huffed. “You’re never serious about anything with me.”

“That’s true. Eat some crackers and shut up.” Holland passed her a box of Ritz from the front seat.

“Whatever. Stop at the next gas station, okay? I have to pee.”

Jackson took a deep breath. Held it. Breathed out.

 

They decided to stop for lunch early in the town of Olancha, at a mediocre, overpriced barbecue joint with greasy sandwiches and cricket-infested bathrooms, which Holly flat out refused to use. Jackson started to insist that there was no way someone who could handle herself in a firefight could possibly be afraid of a few crickets, but Holland stopped him cold. “Don’t even try to fight her on this,” he said. “Not worth it.”

So they found a station and refilled the gas tank early. And then ... blessed peace.

“Holland,” Jackson whispered, glancing in the review mirror, “I’m gonna ask you something, all right? Be honest with me.”

 “Yeah, sure. What is it?”

“Did you drug her?”

“What? Of course not!” Holland, too, glanced back at his daughter, passed out in the backseat. “I’m not a _monster._ For fuck’s sake.”

“Right, sorry.” Jackson went back to focusing on the road, silent for a heavy minute. “I really seriously considered it,” he said.

“Yeah, me too,” Holland admitted, and then they never brought it up again.

 

"I don't have enough room,” Holly said a couple hours later, once their reprieve ended.

“Too bad,” Jackson said. “The seat adjuster’s stuck.”

“I’d have more room if we could put anything in the trunk."

“Well, we can’t. The fishing rods are back there.”

“Plus, all our clothes would smell like that dead guy you found in there last month,” Holly added. “Which is totally gross, by the way. You know, none of my friend’s parents have jobs where their cars end up smelling like dead bodies.”

“That wasn’t our fault,” Holland insisted, trying and failing to get a decent flame from his lighter. He rapped it lightly on the dash. “We didn’t put him in there!”

“You could at least fix it by getting the car detailed.”

“You want to pay for that?” Jackson asked.

“No, I’d rather spend my money forcing people to go on vacation.”

“Holly, you’re pushing it,” Holland said, smacking the empty bic against the dash again. Jackson glanced at him without turning his head, a quick side eye to the right. Holland’s voice was taking on a wire-tight quality that Jackson didn’t like at all.

“Oh, so now _I’m_ the one being pushy? How come don’t I get an opinion about any of this?” Holly cried. “No one asked me if I wanted to go on a trip, no one asked me where I wanted to go, no one asked me _when_ I wanted to go, no one asked me what I wanted to do -”

“Holly,” Jackson tried to interrupt.

“No one asked me if I like lakes or fishing or nature, or if I wanted to fly or drive -”

As she ranted, Holland bent down and started rooting through the toiletries bag, until he fished out a small red and white pill bottle. “Right. I’m taking a little visit to pharmacy town. Have fun with the kid, wake me up when we get there.”

Jackson shook his head at him. “Those are supposed to be for nightmares.” 

“They’re for _sleeping,”_ Holland replied. “And right now, I could use some chemically assisted slumber.”

“Don’t you dare,” Jackson said. “You’re supposed to take over driving in an hour.”

Holland clenched his jaw and made a white knuckled fist around the little plastic bottle, so tight that Jackson started to worry it would break. Instead, he wound up his arm as far as he could and hurled the bottle back into the travel bag hard enough that it bounced right back out again and rolled under his shoe. “What the fuck, Jack!?” he shouted. “Everything is ‘supposed to’ with you lately. We’re ‘supposed to’ take family trips, we’re ‘supposed to’ drive there, we’re ‘supposed to’ get a Polaroid camera and take pictures at the world’s biggest ball of twine or whatever. What are you trying to prove, anyway?"

“You really want to do this?” Jackson snapped, eyes fixed on the road, hands choking the wheel. “You really want to get into it with me, in the car, in front of the kid, now?”

“Don’t mind me,” Holly said.

“Shut up, Holly!” they shouted in unison.

Holland made a sound then, a soft whine that set off alarm bells in the pit of Jackson’s stomach, and began to fumble with the door handle, and then the lock. “This is fucking idiotic. I gotta get out of the car,” he said, yanking up on the little lock bobble. “Pull over, Jack, let me out!”

“Hey, calm down, take a deep breath!”

A hand smacked Jackson twice on the shoulder from behind. “Do what he says!” Holly cried in his ear. “Pull over and let him out!”

“Alright, alright! Christ!” Jackson pulled the wheel to the right, aiming for the roadside shoulder, the gravel catching in the car tires and crunching beneath them like ground glass.


	2. Chapter 2

Their little area of shoulder opened up on a large concrete lot, half the size of a football field, probably the former location of some now defunct roadside grocers or gas station. The three of them wandered to separate corners of the slab, like boxers following a brutal round. Jackson kicked a rock and studied the length of his shadow against the pavement. It was coming up on mid afternoon, close to the time he’d expected they’d be driving through the north end of the mountains, Lake Tahoe almost in view. Instead they were still south of Yosemite, miles to go. 

But then, Holland _had_ warned him about this. Not that he’d listened. 

He felt listless in the heat of the sun, trying to enjoy this brief moment of solitude and finding himself completely unable. It didn’t matter anyhow. After a few minutes, Holly walked up to him with her hands in her pockets, apparently ready to make friends again. “Hey,” she said.

“Hey there.”

She nodded towards the other end of the lot, where Holland was pacing, rather animatedly. “He’s nervous,” she said, as if it needed to be stated.

“He’s always nervous.”

“No, I mean - this is different. I think this is one of those drinking things?”

Jackson regarded her a little more seriously. “How so?” 

“When we used to go on vacation, before - and the one time after - he’d drink the whole time, even in the car. That’s just what he’d do. We go somewhere scenic, and then he’d drink until he passed out or threw up all over it. I think he’s upset because he can’t do that anymore. He was talking about it under his breath before we left.”

“About not drinking?”

“Something about how no one in their right mind would ever fish sober.”

“Oh.” Jackson glanced over at Holland, who did indeed appear to be talking to no one in between puffs of his cigarette. 

“I just don’t want him to, you know. Mess up.”

“Ah. Well, you don’t need to worry about that,” Jackson said. He tried to look reassuring, in the painfully transparent way adults sometimes do for kids when discussing precarious and upsetting situations. “He’s got almost eight months under his belt now. That’s a pretty good place to be. Besides, I’ll be there. I’ll keep him busy.” 

Holly wrinkled her nose at him.

“Not like - gah! I don’t mean it that way, get your mind out of the gutter. Jesus Christ. Your entire generation makes me weep for the future.”

Holly didn’t answer. Her eyes were fixed on the figure of her father, fifty yards away, kicking gravel and muttering. She watched him for a quiet minute before saying, “I don’t mean to get him all riled up.” 

“I know you don’t,” Jackson replied. “It’s not your fault. That’s just the way he is. I don’t think he likes being stuck in the car any more than you do.”

“My mom used to say I’m a lot like him,” Holly said. There was an air of sadness to her words, like there usually was when she spoke about her mom, but this time Jackson wasn’t sure if that was the reason for it. “I never used to get what she meant, but sometimes I see it now.”

“You got his good qualities too,” Jackson said. “You’re both clever, and good hearted, deep down. You care about one another.” He coughed a little and looked away toward the empty horizon. “I want to apologize.”

“What for?”

“You were right. I didn’t ask either of you what you wanted when I planned this trip, and I should have. I just ... I get ideas in my head sometimes and I fixate. You know, I can’t see around them. So I’m sorry.”

Holly shrugged. “It’s okay,” she said. She reached out and squeezed his arm, and Jackson almost laughed. Would that everything were so easy. 

Across the lot, Holland, who seemed to be returning back to sanity, sat his ass down on the gravel and flicked his cigarette butt out onto the road in front of him. Jackson took this as his cue. In a moment, he would walk over to his partner as if he had just happened upon him out in the middle of nowhere, oh, hi Holland, funny seeing you here. He’d extend a hand and help him up and pretend that this was perfectly normal, that Holland hadn’t been frantic and unhinged just a minute ago, and that Jackson’s arm slung around his waist had nothing to do with holding him up on quivering legs. But first, he turned to Holly. “You think he’ll make it through the rest of the day?”

“He’s been through worse.” 

“You think you will?”

 She smiled at him then, in a rare way she sometimes did which seemed to him both young and old, which made him ache a little in his chest. “I’ve been through worse too,” she said.

 

“Feeling better?” Jackson asked, buckling himself into the passenger seat.

 “Fuck you,” Holland said, but it was a lighthearted ‘fuck you’, so Jackson was happy to take it.

Holly cleared her throat, as if trying to figure out the best way to breach the conversation. “If I ask how much longer until we’re there, is it going to start a fight?”

“No,” Jackson said. “We’re about three hours and change out.”

“Change like five cents, or change like three quarters?”

“What? I don’t know, about three and a half hours, give or take. Better?”

“Yup.”

And for a while, it was. Holland drove, and the world sped past their windows without variation until the flat grassland began to roll into to small peaks and valleys, small trees growing larger and fuller and greener. When they cranked the window down (mostly to clear the smoke), the air felt crisp and healthy, almost cleansing. Jackson could smell the mountains in the distance, and he smiled as he reached across the front seat and draped his arm around Holland’s shoulders. 

And then tire exploded directly under the front right wheel well.

“Fuuuck!” Holland shrieked, clutching the wheel as the car swerved a hard left, and then right as he overcompensated to avoid an oncoming pickup. Jackson’s car ran straight off the road, just missing a pine tree, and skid into the mud. 

There was about five seconds of near silence, the only sound Holland’s slightly ragged breathing. Then -

“SHIT!” 

Holland and Holly looked on, stunned, as Jackson slammed his fist down on the dash. “God fucking damn it! Son of a cock whore BITCH!”

“Breathe, Jesus,” Holland said.

  “Fuck this trip! FUCK! THIS! GODDAMN! TRIP!” With each word, he thrust the heel of his sneaker into the car mat, over and over and over. “Jesus! Christ! Fuck!”

“I don’t think he’s going to stop,” Holly said. 

Holland nodded. “Right. Sweetheart, out of the car. No sudden movements.” 

Holly knew when it was time to argue and when it was time to shut up and do what she was told. This felt like a shut up moment. Hopping out over the puddle underneath the back tire, she made her way over to the dry area of the roadside some twenty feet behind them.

In the car, Jackson was still losing all semblance of reason. “Christ. Christ, I can’t fucking...”

“Jack. Breathe.” 

“I just...I just wanted to...” 

“Breathe.”

Somewhere mid rant, it occurred to Jackson that if Holland was acting as the soothing voice of reason, he was well and truly fucked. So he breathed. Deep breath in. Hold it. Out. Again. Again. He was starting to see spots, but at least he was getting control over himself.

“Here.” Jackson looked over toward the drivers seat, where Holland was holding out an open red and white plastic bottle. “Take one.”

In spite of everything, he rolled his eyes. “They don’t give you extra for sharing, you know,” he said, digging a finger into the pill bottle.

“I can spare one.”

“Bet you can’t. You’re supposed to take these to sleep.” He threw the yellow tablet back, swallowed it dry, and took a final deep breath. “You’re way too calm all of a sudden. How many have you had?”

“Just two.”

 “You’re telling me you’ve been _driving_ on these?”

“Don’t judge me for abusing my medication while you abuse my medication,” Holland said. “It’s been a fucking _day.”_

“Yeah, it has. I, ah, I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you about flying.”

“Hmm,” Holland replied, because he didn’t forgive as easily as Holly. “So, you gotta tell me, what’s the deal? You’ve been downright obsessive about this vacation for almost two weeks now. Why the sudden hair up your ass for road trips?”

Jackson scratched his beard, looking positively sheepish. “I - look, I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want you to get jealous.” He cleared his throat. “Holly called me Dad the other week.” 

Holland just blinked at him. “Yeah, so? She’s done that like ten times before. It’s cute. You know, she gets all embarrassed and corrects herself and we laugh.”

“The thing is, she didn’t correct herself this time. She just ... called me Dad.”

There was a pause. Holland opened his mouth to say something, was pretty sure that he should know exactly how to feel about that, but he didn’t, so all he said was, “Huh.” 

“I don’t want you to worry, it was just that one time. Maybe she’ll never even do it again. But I’ve never been ‘Dad’ before, and it made me feel ... special, I guess. Like I was... And I started thinking about how I’m getting older, and she’s getting older, and you know ... we might ... I might not have a lot of chances for stuff like going on trips together...”

He trailed off, leaving an awkward silence, the kind of silence that that could, with the right response, turn into a deep and memorable moment, the kind that completely alter a person’s outlook on life.

But this was Holland.

“So you’re saying _that’s_ why you’re dragging us across state lines?” he cried. “Because your fucking biological clock is ticking?”

Jackson’s jaw dropped. “You’re unbelievable,” he muttered. “I’m trying to be - and you’re just - with your jokes, and your fucking pills and -”

“Okay, okay, sorry, sorry, sorry.” Holland held up his hands. “I didn’t mean it, okay, don’t freak out again. Look,” he dug for a cigarette, “I think it’s great that Holly loves you so much. And if she wants to call you Dad sometimes, then...”

He paused. Jackson cocked an eyebrow at him and waved his hand in a tight circle between them, the universal signal for ‘go on.’

Holland swallowed, flicked the smoke from hand to hand without lighting it. “...then it’s a little weird for me. But I could get used to it. And I get why she’d want to.”

“Really?”

“Sure. You’re good at dad stuff. You look out for her, man, you vet all the fucking sleazeball boys trying to ask her out, you drive her to the mall, you tell her you love her all the time... And as far as I’m concerned, Jack, you can consider today the Dad olympics. If you can survive a full day’s car ride with her and still love her at the end, you win the gold.”

There had to be something he could say to that, Jackson thought, something that could express just how much Holland’s blessing meant, that he understood the weight of it. And he thought back on the last two and a half years and realized that his life with Holland had been series of requests and blessings, the percussion of their relationship, work with me, get sober with me, share your business with me, your house, your daughter, your life. Yes, Holland had said yes, yes, okay, yes, I will. 

He couldn’t believe it, felt stunned to the core - it was a marriage. Jackson wasn’t sure how he had missed this, and he wanted to say something, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. 

But Holland could.

“You know, you’re really cute when you get all emotional.”

Jackson closed his eyes and sighed, but the corners of his eyes betrayed his smile. “You’re stoned,” he said. 

“A little, but it’s still true,” Holland said, leaning over the gearshift and pressing his lips to Jackson’s, soft at first, and then a little harder. And when he started to pull back, Jackson grabbed him tight, held him hard, and pulled them together so fast their teeth clinked. He leaned into the kiss, leaned his weight on Holland, who was plenty strong himself, who could take it. Holland, who, for all his whirlwind insanity, was constant. Holland, who was trying and loud and insistent and needy. Holland, who was his. 

A moan slipped from Holland’s lips, and he said, “Easy,” as he broke the kiss. “Not here.”

“Sorry,” Jackson murmured into the space between them. He was not exactly sure what he was apologizing for.

 “Forgiven,” Holland said, and so it didn’t matter anyway. Jackson pulled him close again.

And then there was a knock at the window.

They both jumped, turning their heads toward the passenger side door, thought not really letting go just yet. Holly was standing there, hands on her hips, looking as though she could not believe her life.

“If you guys are done making out, can we please change the tire and get out of here?”

 

“Hey. Hey, wake up.”

“Hmm?” It was 9:30 in the evening, and they had finally, _finally_ made it to their little two bedroom cabin on the northeast bank of the lake. Jackson had immediately staked out the biggest, softest chair in the living room, some hideous overstuffed plaid abomination, and collapsed into it with absolutely no intention to move again until bedtime. Or until Holly needed him, apparently. “What do you want?”

“Do you love me?”

“What?” He cracked a sleepy eye at her. “Of course I love you.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.” 

“Even after today?”

“Even after today.” 

“In that case, Dad and I made you this.” Her grin was conspiratorial, and yet it gave the impression that she was about to do something young, some childish thing still within her domain as a teenager. Jackson watched, captivated. She reached out, pinned a three inch yellow paper circle to his chest, and he patiently waited for her to finish fiddling with the safety pin before pulling his shirt out to read it. 

It was clear that it had been slapped together with whatever was handy - scotch tape, yellow hi-lighter, magic marker. Written across the front in big bold print were the words “Honorary Dad”. 

Jackson went stock still. He was pretty sure if he didn’t move, if he didn’t even blink, he could keep from crying all over his little makeshift merit badge. 

“You like it?” Holly bounced on her toes.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice deep and tight before he got ahold of himself. “Yeah, kiddo, I love it.” 

_*Click-whiiiiiiiirrrr*_

Jackson looked up and saw Holland, who’d been hiding with the Polaroid camera behind the little corner of wall dividing the living room from the hallway. He pulled the plastic sheet from the photo slot and waved it through the air. “Just so you know,” he said, eyes a little bright, “I’m keeping this hidden for any future extortion opportunities.”

“Like hell you are. I’m getting it framed.”

“You’re such a sap,” Holland told him, and Jackson thought of a comeback in his defense, of two, five, a dozen, all of them very clever. He didn’t bother. He touched a finger to his flimsy little badge, a unique title, a shifting definition, one of which he was perfectly certain.


End file.
